Suite
by Stradivari
Summary: Classical Suites. Dances that come back. Semirelated oneshots, open ended. Short. But then again, most Movements are. And summer never lasts long. Mostly Angstxromance AngelinexTimmy and HxA
1. Allemande

**A L L E M A N D E**

_by_

**Stradivari**

**:i:**

_An **allemande** (also spelled **allemanda**, **almain**, or **alman**) (from French "German") is one of the most popular instrumental dance forms in Baroque, and a standard element of a suite, generally the first or second movement. _

**:i:**

Sometimes, the world seems to hold nothing for your future but what you can expect. After all, logic makes up the human mind. But then again, the thought would plague her mind, like a particular vibrant chord, that was out of the ordinary.

Like something out of Bartok dumped unceremoniously into Mozart.

But then again, when she thought back onto that moment, when he went, it wasn't so bad. Or perhaps she was simply lying to herself. She knew she was. But then again, she was happy to see him go. No more guesswork and no more heartbreak. She would never have to see his face again; never hear his voice, and that voice speaking the words she would never hear, that he would never say…at least, to her. She would never have to see his eyes. Those eyes. It brought magic to her that no gaze of mesmer could ever bring. And perhaps that was why she was so afraid. Afraid that he would know, that she would fall for those sapphires. That it would see her right through, like light through water. But that light would bend. And she never even said it.

She could dance now, the cadences pleasant to the ear. Across from her, was her partner. He was talking. But she couldn't hear. A stately dance, one that he would like. But once you heard true music, then nothing else sounds quite the same…

Once you had tasted heaven, then nothing on earth could quench that desire…

_And she had never even said…_

He went. Without any ceremonies or rituals. Not even with a proper goodbye. She wished she had now, taken them both on a walk, somewhere where water ran, and moonlight shone on the surface. Then perhaps she would have said it. And it would not haunt her like this.

But she didn't. And he was gone, leaving her behind without a single word. As if they hardly knew each other. Or perhaps, she simply thought she knew him. No one really did. And now, she never will.

And sometimes, when she thought back onto that moment, she would smile, and then turn away. He had a smile on his face then. But no smiles for her. And he didn't even remember.

And when that glass shattered, she couldn't even hear the noise. All that came was the music that seemed to radiate blue. And when he went, there wasn't even a whisper of goodbye. Simply, the wind…leaving like the last of summer.

And she wondered if winter will ever end.


	2. Courante

**C O U R A N T E**

_by_

**Stradivari**

**:i:**

_A courtly French/Italian originated dance throughout the 16th to 18th century, being one of the most important dances at court balls under Louis XIV. Later, rather than 6/4 or 3/2 time, the English & German composers adopted a 3.4 tempo. Faster, and more distinctive between the courante and the 'corrente' towards the first half of the 18th century. _

_It was the dance of the noble. The highest of first class._

**:i:**

Things come under different titles, many names and countless faces. I was a young girl then, foolish, so perhaps I didn't know. But I could hardly explain myself away as stupid-because then I would not have been caught.

The Italians used it as a courtship dance, that people may do so under a pretty name. Actually, it was not so different from an ostrich mating. The French, however, forever suave, decided on fast, complicated steps, to impress the ladies.

Being Irish, he combined them all.

I used to love harpsichords. They radiated the elegance and detail beauty that did well behind the steps on the parquet floor.

_Long short, long short._

I liked dancing then too, loved music. They even had a lute, to bring authenticity to the music itself.

It was the eyes that caught me first, rather clichéd actually. But sometimes, clichés could be beautiful things. And they did, piercing blue, and they found mine.

It is a strange thing, love. It doesn't quite click on first sight. Neither does it bloom like a rose, stated in so many poems and claimed in so many books. It was raven hair, a pale face, and wit. That was what love was.

And blue eyes. That was what I could understand.

He would twirl me round, his silver words weaving a web around my head. I was a young girl then. And I thought I knew the world.

I loved him, locked in those moments of exhilaration, just as the mordant twists its loop on the climax. And he would hold me close, and whisper sweet words in my ear, things, wonderful prose of summer nights and nocturnes of moonlit walks along the river. He was intelligent, and he seemed to think I was.

They say diamonds are a girl's best friend. He would shower me with them, bouquet after bouquet of roses, each with a diamond in its center, glistening as if only a drop of water.

_Long short, long short._

He would lace emeralds through my hair and gold around my neck, spinning me around all the while with words of music, of autumn leaves and birds that fly in a red, sunset sky.

Looking back, he bought my love. You could say that. But I would tell you that you were wrong. I believed he loved me. Those eyes convinced me well enough.

_Long short, long short._

Three years, and it all evaporated. All those kisses only a memory as distant as those words he used to say, those promises he used to make. I was such a fool.

But now, I no longer knew if he remembered I was there, or was simply too busy to care. But now, I was left with nothing to hold onto, but those moments in which music played the background and accompanied the words he used to say.

Perhaps gold could buy souls. He certainly seemed to value that over me. Perhaps it was really true. That gold really was love. He showed that well enough, all the diamonds, the emeralds, the gold trinkets. Perhaps that was how he saw the world.

Few years passed, and he seemed to spend more time doing business than at home. He hardly paid any attention at all to his son. It was as if he was fading away from that man I fell in love with, so long ago.

_Long short, long short._

Then he left all together. And all the diamonds, the emeralds, the rubies and gold in the world could not bring him back. Perhaps love might have.

But I lost that long ago.


	3. Sarabande

**S A R A B A N D E**

_by_

-Stradivari-

**:i:**

_Commonly known to be an essentially slow dance, the Sarabande is fast and wildly in Mexico and Spain in the 16th century. It was usually performed with the harpsichord and lute chamber ensembles. Perhaps being the most ambiguous of the baroque dances, the dance has a past too colourful to forget…_

Strange how the word 'sarabande' (or serebande) echoes 'serenade'. Many people confuse one to the other. Stranger still they are nothing alike. You do not have 'tempo furioso' in a serenade and usually no syncopation. Yet a sarabande holds all the elegance and passion of a serenade; more passion, perhaps.

A serenade sings under a ladies window; _ha_!

Addressed to a lover; _Deh viendi alla finestra_.

Of course, he didn't leave me after the courante. He just forgot that I was there. I don't know whether it would have been better if he left altogether. Than my heart could beat for someone else I suppose.

If you asked whether I liked the serenade better or the sarabande, it would probably be the latter; you can't dance the serenade.

No, I take that back-you _can_ dance the serenade. But words are prettier, are they not? And at any rate, there isn't really room to dance on a balcony and he's too busy playing the piano to dance with you. Oh, he was a brilliant pianist. When he was younger, he used to compose quite a lot; a show off, if you may. He wrote a sonata for me once, saying the traditional serenades were far too clichéd.

Now, when I think about it, I wonder if clichés aren't that bad after all.

He didn't have enough passion to fill a serenade. Oh it was full of voices, past polyphonic in texture and the strict fugal numbers to seven, yes _seven_ voices; each independent to the perfection of counter-subject, cadence and episode. It had the complications that were never even exploited in a Sonata, past the genius of Mozart and the prodigious percussionistic effects of Bartok. But it didn't have passion…and I had wanted a sarabande from the very beginning.

He doesn't compose anymore.

I suppose it is ungrateful of me; after all, I have everything anyone could ever wish for.

But no one ever wishes for a sarabande.

Do _you _know how to dance it? I suppose it really depends on your nationality. The French slowed it right down, but probably so it gave them an excuse for its majesty and tenderness. I'm not even asking for that much.

You know, he _did_ dance the courante with me-I daresay it suits his personality more than this. Even so, I could see his heart was already elsewhere. Perhaps he'll love me a bit more if I was a computer encoding or a bank account; give me more of his time if I were some business associate rather than his wife. Maybe just a friend. Maybe then he'll give me a sarabande.

No, I'm being ungrateful again. He already gives me too much; everything I could possibly fancy. Sometimes I wonder how he does that. I could ask for a gold piano…but I don't. He never plays anymore. And it's such a cliché.

Always in his study or away on some business trip or conference. I suppose that's real life.

But a sarabande…is it really too much to ask?

Was gold really worth more than this?

He loves me. At least that's what he says, whenever I ask him. It's really a pity you don't dance by yourself, not the suite at any rate. It's not the same, not really, though one could fantasize.

Have you ever heard a piece of music you can't forget? One that you've listened to so many times the melody and accompaniment alike are etched into your head, replaying itself over and over like a CD? I remember every note, every phrase, all the steps and every bar…

I didn't think any of it when the concert finished and the lights on the stage dimmed and went out. It wasn't dark-the lights in the theatre came on soon afterwards.

I didn't mind then; I was so sure I could revisit that particular sarabande whenever I decided to, so sure I could turn on the lights again and reopen the curtains. So sure…

Yet now, when I replay it in my mind's eye, the dance is faded-does a memory fade in sunlight? I always thought it was only paints that did that. Then I discover it doesn't have to be love; the passion in a sarabande, that is. It could be hate, anger or grief.

Weren't they supposed to be in the minority? Isn't the sarabande supposed to be even deeper than the serenade? Wasn't the serenade supposed to sing of love? Shouldn't the sarabande be longer?

It seemed to be, when I danced it for the first time. Or perhaps I was concentrating too hard ton the details, to know it so well so that I could listen to it later. Why did I do that? Why couldn't I just live it then? Did I already know? Why does no one answer my questions?

Why?

But of course I can remember it. I can replay the melody and dance to the beats in the base played by the harpsichord, even if only my ears can hear the music.

And it is just that. The sarabande only exists in my head.

But I doubt if it exists in his.

**:i:**

**Author's Notes: Another open ended one shot, in semi-form of Interior Monologue. It hints AngelinexTimmy and HollyxArtemis…at least, that is what was intended. Probably more AngelinexTimmy. The whole of the last section was actually an extended metaphor…I've got a lot of notes to go with this one but I want to see what you thought it meant first. (Looks around)**

**As you might have noticed, '**_Deh viendi alla finestra' _**is the title of the aria in the opera 'Don Giovanni'; it is what he sings to his (latest) lover. If you do not know the plot of 'Don Giovanni', it is basically about a young man (Giovanni, surprise surprise) who likes to…eh, dissuade wives and other men's girlfriends. Put it this way, he is rather temperamental. He changes his 'lover' every week. To put the long story short, in the end, he is dragged down to hell. **

**The main point I'm using is that he persuades a woman to love him then tosses her love aside. **

**Hope there wasn't too many typos. **

**Edited a few info bits. --hope nobody noticed…**


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